


Sovereign

by katuman



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical Hetalia, Political Intrigue, assorted ensemble of 18th century russian historical figures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8447674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katuman/pseuds/katuman
Summary: "I gave you my word didn't I, Ivan? Not one drop of blood."





	

_Ingria, Russia_

_1763_

The prison called Shlisselburg sat on an island at the head of the Neva: that broad, icy blue river through which cargo ships go lazily sailing. From a distance the old Novgorodian fortress held an almost peculiar beauty, its spires stark against a mid-morning sky and casting its shade over the small ferryboat drawing near. Winding his mottled old scarf round his fingers, Russia watched the shadow creep over them. Catherine, his Empress, sat at attention beside him, looking grave and professional in the face of a chill April wind that scoured the waters.

The boat docked without very much ceremony. The passengers disembarked. There was a grizzled old warden waiting for them on the dock, who removed his hat and swept into a low bow before Catherine. " _Vashe velichestvo_ ," he murmured respectively. To Russia he gave a military salute. "Sir Braginsky. You may call me Berednikov.” And Russia, as he was so accustomed, repeated the motion without really thinking.

Together they walked through the wide, heavy doors, which closed behind them with something akin to a sigh. He had to blink—once and again—until all the little lights settled into the background and he could see through the dark. The walls of the cavernous Shlisselburg curved upward like the inside of a cathedral, stained black at the ceiling with soot. The bricks were uneven in places, shoddy and wet. Their footsteps were an uneasy metronome to a strange melancholy choir that slowly oozed forth from the very cracks in the mortar as the silence receded.

Voices.

Voices low in prayer to mother and God, the sounds of demented and inhuman men wailing in faraway, subterranean cells. He felt Catherine draw nearer to him—in the dim light he could see her white-knuckled grip tighten at the base of her throat—but her tone was level and cool as she addressed the hobbling jailer.

"Is Elizabeth's prisoner really so dangerous as to merit all this?"

Berednikov worked his tongue in his mouth pensively. “Dangerous, perhaps! But in what manner; that is the question. My men assure me that he has never been physically violent, nor indeed given to obscenity, in the many years they have watched him. But, God!” Berednikov turned his eyes to the ceiling. "Surely one must be dangerous, to find themselves here."

They rounded a corner, where the only sound now was that of the stones, and the noise of a dozen thick iron keys that hung from Berednikov’s belt. Catherine kept pace with him, and Russia fell in behind as he had become accustomed. Perhaps the man was feeling emboldened by the presence of his sovereign in this place of which he was king, because he continued to talk. “The ‘certain prisoner’ must have been a man of some interest to the Empress Elizabeth, to the Russian crown, that even your majesty’s late husband recently sought out his counsel.”

“Did he indeed,” Catherine echoed. “May God rest my dear Peter’s soul.”

“God rest him.” Berednikov nodded solemnly. “I worry that your highness will learn little more from the prisoner than did the emperor. Our friend is quite… simple, and has been for some time.”

“And has he been informed of our meeting?”

Dozens of iron keys rattled shrilly as he drew forth the ring from his belt, and came to a leisurely stop at the door. "Ah, your highness.” Berednikov shook his head. “The appointment was announced insofar as Chekin shouted it through the door. But whether or not he has the capacity to understand what that means is... known only to himself and Our Savior." He selected a key and fitted it to the lock, where it gave a satisfying click.

“You have my assurance," he punctuated his words with a low sweeping look. "That the wardens at Schlisselberg will permit no harm to come to come to your highness."

"I am most grateful, Kommandant Berednikov," Catherine smiled thinly, having picked up on the tone of cloying subservience.

“If you should require more guards—“

“— _thank_ you,” Catherine intoned in her lush, charming drawl. "But I've brought my own." Both of them turned to look at Russia, who gave a mild smile, twisting a button at the front of his coat. The jailer looked him up and down, hand firmly poised on the lock where the key had been turned. "Very well. I shall wait outside the door,"

"You shall not." Catherine said mildly. "Or you shall find yourself waiting elsewhere, for a different post. I will call when I am in need of you. Ivan?” she motioned for him to come forward, and Berednikov retreated instinctively with a pensive, disgruntled expression.

With a rush of stale air, the wooden door opened and just like that, it seemed, it closed right behind them. The cell was not much lighter than the rest of the dungeon. It was small, certainly, and the crooked, worm-eaten wood furniture therein made itself immediately apparent. There was a small table and a singular chair. Unoccupied.

Their prisoner sat in a far corner that was probably less than ten meters away from them, hugging his legs. He stirred very faintly but did not look up. The empress eyed him warily. There was a long silence between them, in which words were considered, omitted, and finally used.

"It is _you_ , isn’t it?” Catherine asked. The prisoner quivered once more, and looked up. That was the first thing that caused Russia’s stomach to drop—how young the prisoner was. This was wrong. Convicts were supposed to be middle aged if not older, rotting, rheumatoid-arthritic detainees of the state. And this boy didn't look much older than twenty. Didn't look much older than him. Framed by filthy blonde hair as long as a woman's, his face had the wan, doughy look of some unholy creature raised in the crypt. His eyes were very wide, but his stare was phlegmatic as it skimmed over Catherine, then turned towards Russia, where much to Russia's discomfort, it lingered. Catherine had moved away from the door now, though heaven knew why. She herself did not seem to know. But she tried again to speak, mustering greater authority in her voice. "Do you know who I am?"

The prisoner did not look at her but his head lolled indecisively.

"And you…" Catherine said slowly. "Do you know who _you_ are?"

The boy rose, wavering slightly on his thin legs. Catherine inhaled sharply, instinctively but the prisoner did not approach her. He shuffled towards Russia, stopping less than two feet away from him, rocking back and forth on his heels. His eyes rolled phlegmatically, the pupils everywhere all at once, aimlessly scanning the same filthy ceiling that had been his sky for God knows how many years and he uttered a noise that did not seem entirely human, a few broken syllables that did not seem to relate to one another at first.”

"Ihh vann chik."

Catherine stared at the boy prisoner without any expression at all. "Yes. That was your name, wasn't it? You were Tsar Ivan Antonovich once. But that was a very long time ago."


End file.
